The Xactilias Project

by RJ Lawrence

  She raised her hands and called them closer.

  "Please, everyone, step forward, step forward."

  They gathered around her.

  "Now, if you'll just give me a few moments, I'd like to say some words."

  Her impossible smile faltered for a brief moment, and then an even brighter one took its place.

  "My name is Sherice, and I'd like to thank you for choosing this exciting opportunity to further your research and individual careers. Now, all of you are experts in your fields, and this has made you desirable to the Xactilias Project. What's the Xactilias Project, you may ask? Well, there will be time for broader explanations. In the meantime, I can say it is a mission dedicated to uncovering new discoveries aimed at advancing the human impact on the world."

  She maintained her smile as she studied their faces.

  "Now, I see a lot of different people from all walks of life, but one thing we all have in common is an insatiable desire to find answers to complex questions and, perhaps more importantly, the innate ability to construct the bridges that will take humanity from this plane to the next."

  Her face suddenly grew somber, forming wrinkles and little bulges without affecting her beauty one bit.

  "I understand you must all have numerous questions, but I'd like you to put a pin in those until we make our final destination."

  A few of the attendees looked at each other. One man spat his gum onto the ground.

  "Wait just a second," he said, all eyes turning toward him as he spoke. "What the hell is all this? You expect us to file into these vans and just go?"

  He turned toward the rest of the party.

  "I don't know about the rest of you, but I haven't been told very much about this organization, and I'd like to know more before I commit to anything."

  The group turned its attention to Sherice, who appeared somewhat puzzled by the interjection, her eyes squinting toward the crowd, like a stage performer searching the darkness for drunken hecklers. After a moment, she turned and leaned back into the shuttle.

  "Demetri?" she called. "Someone has a question."

  The crowd waited for Demetri to appear, but he never did. Instead, the doors on the adjacent shuttle opened and three equally-built men exited, their thick, polygonal frames poorly concealed by dark suits, faces neither handsome nor ugly, expressionless.

  As they approached, the free-willed man studied the increasing void between him and his colleagues.

  "Please come with us, sir," one of the men said, the others bracketing him, sweeping him forward and into their vehicle, the whole thing swift and practiced, a thousand times refined.

  "Now," said Sherice, her mouth regaining its familiar form, "while his individual concerns are addressed, let's talk about what happens next."

  She stepped forward and the crowd gulfed. She turned her back to them and faced the shuttle train.

  "All of you met with one of our representatives, and this is important, because it will decide which shuttle you'll be taking."

  She pointed to the left.

  "If you met with Mr. Humphries, you'll be taking number five at the rear. If you met with Ms. Donovan, you will take number four. If you met with Mr. Grace, you'll take number three. And if you met Mr. Harris, you'll be riding with me in shuttle number one."

  She turned to face the group.

  "Obviously, no one will be riding in shuttle number two, except for existing passengers, of course."

  She looked around, as if she expected questions.

  "Alright then. Let's all get into our shuttles and start this exciting adventure."

  The groups within the group separated, some shaking hands, a few exchanging hugs, most content to keep their distance from anyone with features indistinct. They all lined up at their respective carriers and entered one by one, each vehicle equipped with white, leather seats and a steward to guide the incoming forth. At the front of the train, Claire fell in behind a line of tired, beaten-looking people with haggard faces aimed nowhere but down. Each went up the steps and took a seat, Sherice grinning madly as they passed, like an insane flight attendant, happily at work upon a conveyor of doomed souls.

  When the passengers had taken their seats, an automated voice bled through a pair of overhead speakers: toneless, preserved words thanking them for coming, asking them to please fasten their safety belts and remain seated through the duration of the ride. When all was set, the shuttle train moved forward, circling around the paved court and carefully descending the curb one by one, the passengers jostling within darkened windows, their existence imperceptible to the few passing motorists occupying the city's sleepy streets.

  Outside, the night saw the city evolve from a place of efficient business to one of sour noises and hard tastes. The deodorized flock gone to slumber, the streets now played host to a homeless breed, which subsisted off indirect charities and the plights of its anothers. One after the next, they passed by the windows of the racing shuttles, each one staggering loopily along the filthy gutters, some heavenly gazing after a fix, others downward, their faces knotted, broken minds sorting deviant languages murmured from within, tongues fast at work, saying what?

  The shuttles traveled a familiar stretch of roads, and many of the passengers already knew their destination long before the airport lights bubbled atop the westward horizon. But instead of taking the usual route, the shuttles veered down unknown paths that twisted and turned before finally spilling onto the runway itself, each trailing vehicle impossibly close in its pursuit.

  The train wheeled past all comers, baggage handlers slowing their work, reflective clothing vivid under the passing halogen beams. Some of the guests rose toward the windows, fingers fiddling with their seatbelts enough to realize they were locked.

  Finally, the shuttles wheeled to a stop near a military cargo plane, its impossible volume enough for squadrons of men with plenty of room left over.

  A voice rang from the overhead speakers, startling the passengers as they leaned over one another trying to see out, it was Sherice, and she seemed no less enthusiastic than she'd been before the drive.

  "Passengers, may I have your attention?"

  Throughout each vehicle, a hanging cloud of mutters dispersed into a hush, as everyone calmed to listen.

  "Good," she said, invisible to all but those in the lead carrier. "I'm so glad to welcome you to our intermediate destination. Next, you will all be boarding a flight that will take you to a tertiary destination, and I must ask that you hold all your questions until journey's end."

  As she cleared her throat over the microphone, the shuttles filled with an agony of trebled clatter, and some of the passengers clutched their ears.

  "I'm sorry," she said, regaining her pitch. "Now, as each one of you exit, your steward will present you with an envelope meant only for you. Once we exit, you'll have an opportunity to lightly disperse. At this time, please read your card and then place it inside a pocket or handbag. Now this information is meant only for you, and we must insist that you refrain from sharing any part of it with your associates. If I am able to impress one thing upon you during our brief encounter, it is that the leaders of the Xactilias Project value cooperation above virtually all else; so please head all warnings that pertain to the sharing of information."

  They felt her smile among them, as she said to rise and exit, the seatbelts separating at the break of her voice, as if she by will controlled each one using the few mental powers jangling around her empty head. One by one, they stood and walked and claimed their little envelopes before stepping out onto the tarmac, the spring breeze warm and kind even at this crooked hour. When they'd all exited, the doors to the shuttles snapped shut, while the crowd dispersed as instructed.

  Claire watched the train get going, Sherice inside, that shrill voice still in her head, rattling around like screws in a coffee can.

  "That woman's been holding in the same fart for more than a few years," she heard from behind. She turned to see a glad-looking ma
n with handsome features that might have seemed threatening on someone from the blue collar world. He smiled through a set of polished teeth, his deep brown eyes devouring everything they saw.

  "My name's Nathan," he said, offering his hand like it was a reward.

  Claire took it briefly before leaving it in mid-air.

  "I really don't think we should be talking, they said we should disperse and read our messages."

  He smiled.

  "Sure." He stood same-placed as she turned to walk away. "We'll just put a pin in this. Nice to meet you."

  Most everyone had already secured territory, and she hurried past them as if working against a stopwatch, a frowning man with his thumb hovering over the button, tenths of seconds wasted with every misstep. She finally breached the outer circle and found a private place of her own where no one would see over her shoulder. Across the way, she saw distant runway personnel stopping to watch the scene playing oddly before their seasoned eyes. She turned to see their perspective, the envelope moist inside her pocketed hands. Indeed, they all looked foolish spread out that way: high-shouldered and slouched forward, heads alternating from left to right. They looked very much like children involved in some sort of curious schoolyard game, each one hoarding clues for a contest that might bring licorice or tiny adhesive gold stars.

  When she was sure no one else could see, the envelope came out, and she tore it open to withdraw another card.

  "Welcome, Ms. Foley," it said. "We are very pleased you have chosen to participate and are confident you will find great success with our organization. That said, we must insist that you discuss neither the details of your recruitment nor that of other guests. Failure to comply will result in immediate termination. - Demetri M."

  She put the card back into its container and studied the others, blank faces giving up little, some clutching their memorandums tightly, others crumbling the cards and tossing them onto the tarmac. One man laughed aloud when he read his card; a woman put a trembling hand to her mouth.

  "Hello!" A man said from above.

  They looked up and saw him standing high atop stairs that cut into the belly of the plane, his figure looking rigid in a tailored military uniform.

  "Welcome, each and every one of you."

  He had a thin mustache that was shaved into a pencil line across his lip, and he sailed down the stairs with ease, the toes of his polished boots tapping each one for only an instant, as if they moved only to give the appearance of walking, while he floated upon a descending draft of air.

  "Please, all of you," he said, as he hit the level ground, his hands high above his head, summoning all together across whatever fictitious borders kept them apart.

  "Now," he said, as they fell in before him. "My name is Bernard, and I will be shepherding you to your tertiary destination."

  He scanned them slowly, each brown iris looking small upon his bulging white eyes. He kicked his heels together and crossed his hands behind his back, his body growing even more wooden before their eyes.

  "Now," he said. "You will all line up in any order and board the plane using the stairs. Inside, you will enjoy free seating unless you require special assistance, in which case you will notify one of the attendants who will see to your individual needs."

  He looked them over once more before smiling enough to show most every tooth.

  "I'm pleased to be in your company and hope you will find your journey without discomfort," he said. "However, I must ask that you hold any questions until journey's end, when all of your individual needs will be addressed to your particular satisfaction."

  `He turned his body in an automated sort of way, his left foot sliding backward, like some giant invisible finger had pushed against his right shoulder. He raised his arm and turned his palm upward, as if to introduce to their eyes the plane for the very first time.

  "Please," he said.

  They all shuffled together to form Bernard's line, and he watched as they ascended the motorized passenger staircase, everyone avoiding his stare, eyes fixed to the back of the one before them.

  Claire fell in with the laggers at the back of the line, finally taking a spot behind the person who did not want to be last and the one who did. When she finally reached the top of the stairs, a thin young Latin woman greeted her with a fierce smile before pointing the way to the seating compartment, which held three to a row on either side. She walked the aisle looking for a seat, moving past the rows of strangers toward the first vacancy she saw.

  "Hello," Nathan said, his arm casually rested atop the backside of the open seat middled between him and an old man who seemed to pay attention to neither. "I'm willing to offer the window seat if that's something you're interested in."

  She smiled politely.

  "That's very gracious of you. Nathan, is it?"

  He rose up and shrunk backward, the old man following suit; each allowing her to pass by and take his offer, her rear end brushing hard against each of their fronts, with all parties pretending otherwise.

  "That's right," Nathan said. "And what was your name?"

  "Claire," she said, as she claimed her seat. "It's Claire."

  "Nice to meet you."

  The old man leaned forward and outstretched his hand over Nathan's lap.

  "My name is Alfred, madam," he said, a hint of an accent bending each word, its origination left unidentifiable by decades of proficient suppression.

  "Claire," she said, as she took his hand, soft in hers and courteously gripped. "Nice to meet you."

  "Thank you," he said, smiling somewhat bashfully. He wore round, thickly-framed eyeglasses and a free-willed bush of a mustache that had grown Einsteinian, by coincidence or intent, one could only guess. "Mr. Nathan and I were just discussing the odd tenor of this evening. Although, I must say, he seems to be most comfortable despite the countless oddities we seem to have witnessed."

  Nathan placed both hands on his knees.

  "Well, Alfred, I just happen to enjoy the anti-norm wherever I find it." He grinned, and Claire could see he was chewing gum. "What about you?" He turned toward her. "What's your story?"

  "I don't have one."

  "Ah," he said, dashing the thought with a flip of a hand. "I hardly believe that, else you'd be sitting on another plane headed to a seminar in Nebraska or Iowa."

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  "Oh, I get it," he said. "You're one of these lab rats who's spent a life hovering over microscopic worlds pressed between slides."

  "Hardly," she lied.

  "Are you sure?" he asked. "I think I can see a microscope imprint around your eye."

  Alfred touched his arm.

  "This is how you acquaint yourself with a beautiful woman?" He asked. "In my day, young men approached women with poetry on their lips."

  Claire smiled politely.

  "I take pride in your error, Alfred," Nathan said. "However, I'm neither young nor am I trying to woo our seatmate. I'm merely making conversation." He turned back toward Claire. "So what is it? Do you have a story or not?"

  She looked at Alfred and then back to Nathan.

  "Well, of course I do, but I believe we've been instructed to protect our information from one another."

  "Ah," he said. "The babbling woman with the painted face. As I recall, her guidelines pertained only to our little personalized memorandums. Am I incorrect?"

  He looked at each of them, palms turned upward. Alfred frowned, his mouth disappearing beneath a forest of twisted gray.

  "I suspect the ominous nature of the warning itself was meant as a chilling affect toward all communication; however, I cannot disagree with your assessment." The old man looked over both his shoulders before hunching toward them. "Perhaps we should whisper, nonetheless."

  They both looked at Claire, each of them eager-faced, as if the three sat beneath a fortress of sheets, trading slumber party gossip above a low-watt flashlight bulb.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't feel comfortable."

 
; Alfred looked disappointed, but Nathan only smiled.

  "I'll do it for you then."

  He cleared his throat and framed his hands like a director setting a scene.

  "You're an idiot savant fresh from your laboratory cage, where your hyper-systemizing resulted in countless breakthroughs, which brought you countless edible treats and, ultimately, freedom itself, and, no less significant, an opportunity with the mysterious Xactilias Project."

  Alfred's wrinkled face grew somber, as if the words had been pointed toward him.

  "Such talk," he said without a follow-up. Claire smiled.

  "It's alright, Alfred," she said. "I've heard worse from better."

  Nathan's face grew worried.

  "Forgive me. I meant to be funny."

  "Please," Claire said. "It’s perfectly alright."

  A single tone poured from the overhead speakers, causing everyone to perk up in their seats.

  "Welcome passengers," a voice said with a German accent. "This is the pilot speaking. I'm quite pleased to have each of you with me this evening. Our flight will take between seven to 12 hours to complete, depending on weather and other circumstances. Should you need to use the facilities, please flag the closest attendant, and she will escort you. Otherwise, we must insist that you remain seated for the duration of the trip, unless you have a medical condition, in which case, you should notify your nearest attendant immediately following this message."

  They waited for more, but nothing came. Instead, the engines roared to life and the plane crawled forward, no catastrophe procedures or safety demonstrations, the passengers furiously fastening their seatbelts on their own accord.

  The tone rang out again, sending pulse rates ever higher.

  "This is your captain again," a voice said. "I'm sorry to say we have no choice but to deviate from usual procedures and take off immediately. Please fasten your safety belts and prepare for lift off."

  As the plane gathered speed, more than a few faces grew pallid, some digging fingernails into arm rests, others deep in meditative breathing exercises.

  Claire shut her eyes, but this only made the engines louder, so she raised her lids and looked about the aircraft if only to read faces of the flight attendants for signs of calm or concern. Instead, she saw panic throughout the cabin: the passengers hunkered backward into the plush of their seats, the attendants themselves looking rattled, hands on their hats, bodies jolting side-to-side.